We were not looking where we were going, running on intuition, hunches and illusion, or … delusion. There, in that dark sprawling city, spilling with life, on the troubled and brooding River Thames, writhing with history and with the shifting waters of now, I find a place to live, though under constant threat of eviction.

It’s a stage, I suppose, where it all plays out, the unfurling of boundless energy and blind yearning of youth. Is it theatre, or is it simply a dream.

On Sunday morning, we go to visit Diana, whose address still faintly appears on the inside of Pedro’s wrist where she wrote it back in chapter 132.

I sincerely hope that a plot is not forming here. What could be worse than that. (Image illustration by the author; some twisted handmade nails.)

The Fat Boys are apparently distracted by the slow deliberate plucking of my fingers on the strings. I ponder this scene wondering about just what it could mean,

Infinite attention. What could that be about. The opposite perhaps of infinite distraction. What would that look like. A good cop, bad cop dichotomy. Attention good, distraction bad, ... or not.

Everybody wants to try, at some time. Everybody wants to try and jump off something that’s higher than what they can handle,

Jacques Lusseyran, French author and political activist, blind from the age of seven, suggested that one might prepare for one’s central mission in life by doing things that may seem entirely unrelated, and how necessary this may be.

Time marches on in the Wilting Thistle, apparently waits for no one.

All about the magic of typewriters and text miraculously appearing. That kind of thing. You'll just have to listen to find out more.